That trite cliché was well served today, as it was not only raining, but my band had been asked to play on a local college radio station. Things had been falling into place recently, playing more shows, making new connections, and generally moving forward in a series of friends-who-know-friends, and sheer luck. It's hard to tell what sort of minor factors had to be aligned to get things to work right, especially when it's four mildly misanthropic guys in their mid-thirties like we are. Not that we were complaining, of course. We were playing another show tomorrow, and if being on the radio netted us even one more person at the door, the effort would be worth it.

I drove slowly through the campus, looking for the building that housed the radio station. I hadn't really been on a college campus in a long time—the first university I went to had a sprawling commons and took up most of the town, but I had dropped out after a year, and when I was ready to go back, I went to a college that was smack dab in the middle of the city, with no campus to speak of (or, as the propaganda went, "The whole city is your campus!"). So, it was a little odd to make my way through this fenced-off sanctuary of learning, with its manicured lawns and stately buildings arranged artfully across the grounds.

After asking a few kids who seemed surprised there was an "old guy with a moustache and a leather jacket" wandering around campus (amazingly, no one called security), I found the station. It was located at the end of a long corridor that was off of a sort of student union/mini-mall (since when was The Gap allowed to have stores on a college campus?), and there was no back way in. I realized with some dismay that I would have to carry my drums through the main building and down the hall. I reminded myself that this was for a good cause, and turned around to head back out to my car to start the process of hauling my gear down to the studio.

The corridor I walked back down had doors to classrooms along each side. They were typical classroom doors, solid panels of wood, with a slim rectangular window that was vertically above the doorknob. Since the radio show we were to be on had an evening time slot, the classrooms were dark, except one. I walked past it, and saw through the little window that there were about 20 or so students sitting at their desks, all sitting straight up at attention. I was about to keep walking, but I stopped in my tracks when I saw them move.

They were all moving in perfect synchronization, like puppets tied to the same strings. Their heads dropped to their chests, right arms moving from their laps to the surface of their desks, pens in hands, and taking notes in unison, then dropping their hands back into their laps, and sitting up straight again. Though the movements were made with military precision, they were dressed like any motley band of college kids: White baseball caps flipped around to the back, standard-issue grey hooded sweatshirts, loose shorts, Baja jackets, miniskirts, ripped jeans, pony tails, Caucasian dreadlocks, flip-flops, sneakers, combat boots. But they were all moving as one. I stepped closer to the door, looking to the front of the room.

Standing in front of a black board was a tall, thin man with a severe, drawn face, wearing a black suit and sunglasses. In his left hand he held a long wooden pointer. On the long desk in front of him there was a squat oblong metal box with a pane of glass on one side, which was facing the class. The man swatted the pointer at the blackboard just as the box gave of a flash of pale blue light. As if pushing a button, the students responded immediately. I squinted at what was written on the blackboard. In large letters, the thin wooden rod was pointed at the word, "OBEY." The stick smacked the blackboard again at the word underneath, along with another flash. "SUBMIT." Another flash, another smack, "ALLOW." And then repeat. "OBEY." Flash. "SUBMIT." Flash. "ALLOW." Flash.

In the back corner of the classroom, a young girl with jet-black hair and bangs slid off her chair and onto the floor. She began to twitch and jerk uncontrollably, while a thin film of white foam oozed from between her lips. The rest of the class ignored her, and continued moving in synch with each other, and with the flashing of the metal box. A voice from down the hall made me jump. "Can I help you?" It was a guy with a beard, looking in his late twenties.

"Uh, yeah. I'm here for the radio show?"

"Oh, yeah! We've been waiting for you. Here, I've got a wheeled pallet to help you get your stuff in. Shouldn't be a problem. You guys will be on in half an hour."

Spring fever is upon us. We have broken through the damp tedium of the rains, and the sun hammers in hard behind a cold front, dumping its golden rays onto the streets and hurling arrows of light against computer monitors, blinding all of us with the ricochet. As depressing as the rains were, the sunshine somehow seems just a tad bit cruel, especially when experienced through thick panes of glass while sitting in a grey fabric box.

Work never ceases however, and so the day dragged on the way that days do, days where there's always something else going on somewhere else, and you just can't reach it, but you could, if you had only five more minutes, if Bill would just return your phone call, if the damn copy machine weren't broken. Days when you're on the phone with the field office in Kansas, explaining for the umpteenth time that while you appreciate that the client is taking out a ten million dollar policy, that doesn't mean we can let him commit fraud while doing so, and your mind wanders off in mid sentence as you stare out the window at the emerald-blue skies and white cotton candy clouds.

There's no point in sitting at your desk when this kind of mood hits. You either have to find busywork that will take you around the building, or you go to lunch. At eight in the morning, no one's going to buy the lunch excuse, so I grabbed some old files that had been sitting in my desk from the pre-paperless office days, and scouted out the new long-term storage depository. Not that the office was entirely free of paper. As much as the corporate higher-ups want to save money on paper, everyone's desks had stacks of notes, files, printouts, and duplicates constructed into fortresses of information.

But paper costs weren't the only reason the Big Bosses wanted to keep everything electronic. It wasn't too hard to imagine that they had keyloggers and other bits of spyware on the company computers. The more aspects of the daily process that could be done on the networked machines, the more metrics they had to play with, and the more they could try to social engineer the plebes and squeeze more productivity out of them. Not to mention, they could keep tabs on who was slacking off. The problem of course was data overload. If they're really tracking all of these computers, there's no way any one person's behaviors will jump out, unless they're downloading child porn or something.

But since people are human, they are bound to do something not work related at some point in the day. So the data accumulates, until they decide to make cuts, and then they go look at one particular person's data record, and lo and behold, they logged onto Facebook. Just like a traffic cop has an entire stack of offences they can use that you've never even heard of until they want an excuse to pull you over, you data file is never looked at until they want to fire you for some reason. And the more electronic work you do, the larger your data file. So, perhaps without even consciously realizing it, people around the office still do at least a third of their work on paper, just to escape the digital shackles.

I turned a corner, the paper files weighing down my arms, looking for the room where we can drop off old files. For some reason, it changed every few months. Probably because no one wanted the job of alphabetizing and packing up the reams of paper. It used to be in the Southwest corner, so I headed that way. Maybe it was still there, or at least someone over there might know where it moved to. Because of all the personal information and social security numbers, the door down at that end was electronically locked. I balanced the files on my left forearm while groping for my ID with my right. As I held up the card to the lock, it flashed green. Maybe I was in luck; maybe the depository was still here and hadn't moved yet. I stepped into the room, hoping to see stacks of cardboard boxes.

The room was bare, almost. There was a large table in the center, and standing on either side was a man in a dark, navy suit. Only, they had heads like frogs, with long, pink tongues drooping from their mouths. Their eyes bugged out darkly from the flat, bumpy, green skin, and air pockets bulged obscenely behind where their ears should have been. They were focused on what was lying on the table before them. It was a young girl, completely naked and still. She had brown hair, slightly curly, which was spread out behind her as she lay on the table. I couldn't tell if she was alive. The thing on the right extended its tongue, and, starting at her feet, licked up the inside of her leg. She twitched, and I knew she could feel everything. The tongue moved higher up her thigh, and she made a low noise, disgusted with what was happening to her. The thing on the left lowered its head, and began lapping at her small breasts. She began to whine, as if in pain, and I saw blood begin to bead on her calf where the tongue had dragged up her skin. It looked as if she had fallen off a bike and gotten a bad case of road rash. The skin was scraped and torn.

More scrapes from the creature's tongues crisscrossed her breasts now, and a thin stream of blood made a rivulet down her stomach, pooling in her belly button. She was groaning louder now, and the thing on the right put one large, slimy hand over her mouth, muffling her cries. With a decisive grunt, the thing on the right shoved his tongue between her thighs. She shrieked beneath his hand, and her whole body convulsed while the tongue flopped and strained inside her. The thing on the left leaned down ever further, and, grinning with all-too-human teeth, savagely bit down on her breast, digging in and tearing at it, and finally ripping a large hunk of skin and flesh. They both started grunting and hooting as the girl stopped struggling, her legs splayed grotesquely as they began exploring her body more thoroughly. In retrospect, maybe it would have been better to find an excuse to go to lunch, instead.

If someone does the “Fine, you’re right, I’m clearly a terrible person, I’m Satan, I’m the worst person alive, I should just die” thing in response to criticism of their harmful behavior, they are trying to manipulate people and flip the situation around so that they look like a victim.

As a neuroscientist I have to disagree with the perception that anyone is doing mathematical modeling of cognitive intelligence, yet; intelligence as an economist defines it, yes, but economists are worlds away from actual cognition.

Although it is outside the purview of this organization to offer personal advice, we can say -- without assuming any liability -- that previous experience indicates (and recent market studies corroborate) that given the present condition of the marketplace, continuing with your present course of action is likely to result in substantial in

We got a call from a friend who lives outside the city. She had moved about 45 minutes south because she got a new job, gotten a really nice place to stay, and discovered there's not much to do out there. But there are at least one or two nice restaurants out there, so we decided to meet her at one of them and grab some dinner.

It seems there's still a difference between time and space, at least when it comes to driving. In the city, going from the Boston side to the Cambridge side across the river (a distance of about 4 miles) can take half an hour, maybe even longer if the traffic is bad. But for some reason, spending the same amount of time but going five times further seems like such an effort. Same car, same stereo, same length of time. So what's the difference?

We found the restaurant easily enough, and it was surprisingly elegant, even if the hipness level was a year or so out of date. It's not like I'm overly concerned with that, it just had a slightly stale feeling, no matter how sharp the deco angles were, or how brightly the chrome gleamed under tiny halogen drop lights. But the drinks were made well, and you could see directly into the kitchen, which had a wood-fire grill that would flare up occasionally as a steak was flipped.

My friend was already sitting at the corner of the bar, sipping on a glass of wine. We grabbed seats on either side of her, framing a triangle, and after a quick drink order, fell to talking. Nothing too heavy, just catching up with what was happening in our lives, jobs, bands, all that. The conversation took the usual twists and turns it always does when friends who have known each other for a while get together; all the parts interconnected and flowing together, without a need for excessive context or exposition, wending its way from one topic to another, and almost never without a smile on someone's face.

The conversation turned to shoes, which could be considered inevitable. And while I consider myself enlightened enough to watch Project Runway and appreciate the fashions, sometimes I get lost in the technical details. But that was ok, too. The conversation would shift soon enough, and I might learn something. I let my eyes drift over the bar, at the other patrons. Middle aged, on average; this wasn't a college bar by any means. They were all dressed up, or at least were taking more effort than jeans and a T-shirt. The bar section had filled up quite a bit since we had gotten there, and the volume of conversation had built up as well.

A shrill laugh pealed out from the other end of the bar. I looked over and in the dim light, I saw three women hunched over martini glasses filled with something pink, and garnished with some garishly sliced fruit. In the middle was a woman in her early thirties, grey blouse and light brown hair, cut short. Wire framed glasses sat on her pinched, slightly worried face and she looked down into her drink. On either side of her was an older woman, each in their late fifities, at the least. The one on the left had a black dress with clearly outdated shoulder pads, and a gleaming white pearl necklace. The one on the right had a blouse of deep red, and had her hair pinned back in a tight bun. They were the ones laughing, and I started to notice that there was a cruel edge to it. The woman in black leaned in to say something to mousy woman, who flinched at her words as the woman in red threw her head back with mirth.

Then she leaned in as well, and lifted her hand to make a gesture. Her nails were as red as her shirt, and were very well-kept. The nails were at least an inch long, and tapered into an elegant point that had probably never seen a minute's worth of labor. As she continued talking, she jabbed her index finger at the grey woman's face as if stressing a point. The nail sunk into her cheek easily, and a chunk tore away as the woman in red curled her finger back.

The young woman jerked her head back, as the woman on the left clutched her shoulder. Her nails were painted a dark purple, almost as black as her dress, and they were just as sharp as her companions, digging in to the flesh between her neck and shoulder, just above the collarbone. A thin rivulet of blood dripped down the front of the young woman's grey blouse, and her face screwed up in a look of agony and shame. Again, a red fingernail dug into her cheek, this time carving a line from the corner of her eye to her jaw. Her head jerked back, pulled by dark fingers, and her soft neck glowed pale under the cold light of the bar.

The older women looked at each other, and with their palms facing out, jammed their fingers into either side of the grey woman's neck. Their fingers sunk in to the second knuckle, and then curled them into claws and pulled. The young woman's throat exploded in a shower of blood and gristle as a thick wad of flesh thumped against the bar. The women howled with laughter and raised their martini glasses in a toast, as blood spattered onto their faces and clothes. The young woman slumped in her seat as the maître d’ approached us, announcing that our table was ready and if we would just follow him, please.

Mottled light from the setting sun scatters through the trees by the side of the road.Struck by blight, no leaves, just sharp points jutting in odd directions.At this speed, the guardrail becomes a floating grey bar, a thin barrier between the pavement and the forest. A caller on NPR is reciting a list of economic complaints in a high-pitched whine. I recline in the passenger's seat, head lolled over to one side. Watching the blur.

Movement.

Just beyond the treeline, something large. Something running. Too big to be human. Plus, it has long, curving horns. How many legs is it running on? Two.

Something's burning.

Turning my head to look back. Behind us, a fading crescent glow of the setting sun merges with angry orange flames deep in the woods. A plume of thick black smoke reaches towards wispy cirrus clouds settling in the evening sky. A fireball blossoms just above the tree tops, but the car's thick insulation and the dull hum of the road muffles any sound.

Ahead of us, the forest opens up onto a beaver-built reservoir, the water's edge encroaching the trees with every season. Stumps thrust through the surface mark the wood's defeat. The beast is still running, is running out of cover. Is running towards the road. Breaks through the trees. Can only catch a glimpse as the car hurtles by through the fading light. Large arms. Talons. Horns. Eyes like the inferno raging behind us. Leaps into the road with a ferocious grace.

Leaps into the path of a pickup truck.

Twisting my body around in the seat, the creature's body explodes into wet pieces, a hooked claw spinning through the air, a shard of shattered horn tumbling along the blacktop. Its misshapen head tears loose from the body and bounces off the hood of the truck, which has crumpled like an old cardboard box. The pickup fishtails; driver's face a white mask of panic underneath blue Red Sox cap; tires catch, and truck begins to roll. Flips, and crushes the roof before bouncing into the culvert for the reservoir. The fire is spreading, and chaotic flames are illuminating large, dark shapes advancing through the woods.

If someone does the “Fine, you’re right, I’m clearly a terrible person, I’m Satan, I’m the worst person alive, I should just die” thing in response to criticism of their harmful behavior, they are trying to manipulate people and flip the situation around so that they look like a victim.

As a neuroscientist I have to disagree with the perception that anyone is doing mathematical modeling of cognitive intelligence, yet; intelligence as an economist defines it, yes, but economists are worlds away from actual cognition.

Although it is outside the purview of this organization to offer personal advice, we can say -- without assuming any liability -- that previous experience indicates (and recent market studies corroborate) that given the present condition of the marketplace, continuing with your present course of action is likely to result in substantial in

Coffee. They offer it for free in the break room. Gotta keep the drones awake and jittery. Gotta keep them anxious. If you feed their addiction to caffeine, you'll feed their addiction to work. Can't let it slip.

Phone call. The home office in Michigan needs special help. Could we make an exception? It's probably fraud, but this is a really big case, and they don't want to lose it. No, you have to get it signed by the client. Nothing I can do. Yeah, we'll take a fax.

The fluorescent lights in the department are flickering. Pretty badly. You can really start noticing the shadows that they create. Normally, they're hidden or obscured by the multiple light sources, but when they're flashing like this, the shadows really stand out. The computer monitor acts like an anti-strobe, bright when the lights flicker off, and then overpowered when they come back on.

There's a maintenance crew here now, they're on the other end of the cubicle field, and have set up an A-frame ladder. They've removed some panels from the drop ceiling, and seem to be pulling wires and cables out. Some of them look chewed. The charred body of a rat falls from the hole, and lands with a heavy thump on Jessica's desk. Good thing she's at lunch right now.

The digital clock flashes to the magical number. Stow the coffee mug in the drawer, pull the jacket off the hook, shuffle to the elevator. Don't make eye contact. Yawn. Think of the couch. Think of the last beer in the fridge. Think about what's on TV. Don't think about doing this all over again tomorrow.

That was incredible. My first impression of the numbers and names acting as your work juxtaposed against your thoughts was pretty positive. Once they started changing the effect was your thoughts bleeding into your work, becoming too overwhelming to maintain control over. I could picture a spreadsheet where halfway down an office worker started actually inputting those words as names. I can even see the next step, imagining the reactions of higher ups who notice the mistake. The meetings and the severe terror of the person who did it when they realize what they'd done.

I'm not sure if that was your intention, but it worked powerfully well. This is among the best ones yet.